Page 76 of Salvation
She tries to hand it back, shaking her head to deny what I’m saying, but I hold my hands over hers, not letting her. “Just think about what I’m saying, Ivy, before you get rid of it.” I lean down, making myself kiss her temple instead of her lips because when I kiss her again, it will be because she has no doubts in hermind about us. My lips linger against her skin, taking an extra second to soak her in as her lashes flutter closed, and when I pull away, it’s with a whisper in her ear. “And don’t make plans for tomorrow, sunshine. I have something I want to show you.”
Ivy is still standing with her eyes closed, and I straighten to my full height again, and a smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth. She listed the reasons why she thinks this won’t work, but they were flimsy—and I plan on proving that to her.
“And Ivy—” I say, unable to hide the smirk from my voice as her eyes pop open and fall on me. “Don’t tell my mom, but that kiss was worth ruining her cookies for.”
I nod to where the container still lies where I dropped it, and Ivy’s eyes widen as if she just now realized I’d been holding them when she ran into my arms.
A blush heats her cheeks, and I could spend the rest of my life looking at her like that.
“You’re an incorrigible flirt, Campbell Richards.”
Throwing my head back, I let the laughter spill from my chest and wink. Because for my whole life, I’ve only ever flirted with her.
Chapter 33
Ivy
Sixteen Years Old
When I was little—and my mom was still alive—I had the prettiest pink room. We picked the color together, and she let me help her paint it. I haven’t thought about that room for a long time, but for the past few months, ever since finding out that the baby growing in my belly is a girl, I’ve dreamed about it. It’s the kind of room I want her to have—one where she feels safe and loved because outside that room, she’s already going to have a thousand challenges. A single, teenage mom. An absentee father. Grandparents that I never wanted her to grow up around, but inevitably will. And that’s all before she even makes it out of the womb. But if I can give her this one thing, a place to escape, maybe it won’t leave as many marks.
I’m standing in a room with four white walls. One room of ten, actually—all with white walls. But where it usually feels like a prison closing in on me, all I see in this room is the potential to be something more. The tall windows allow natural lighting to shine in on the hardwood floors, and in the evening, it has the best view of the sunset.
Dropping my sketchpad on the floor, I follow, although not quite as quickly. With a grunt and a leg cramp, I manage to get myself situated, ready to draw. I could have sat at the desk in the corner, but I wouldn’t have been able to think there. Sittingon the floor with a sketchbook in my lap is part of my process, even though I have to sketch against my stomach instead of my lap nowadays.
As I draw, I begin to hum, and just like she always does when I hum, Willow kicks against my stomach, causing my pen to jerk across the paper and leave a stray line.
“Hey, knock it off in there,” I say, flattening my palm against my stomach and smiling. “This is for you.”
Taking the eraser to the mark, I start again and then spend the next half hour dreaming. In my mind, the four-poster bed is replaced with a beautiful wooden crib. The walls are painted in a soft pink—all except the one behind her crib. On that one, there’s a hand-painted willow tree that looks as if her name is carved into the bark.
Willow. That’s what I have decided to name her because beneath the willow tree is the only place I’ve ever felt loved—even if that love ended up burning to the ground.
I swallow as an onslaught of pain crashes into my chest, making me ache for things that are no longer mine—that were never really mine to begin with. A single tear rolls down my cheek, landing on the paper, right over the heart I drew around Willow’s name. Not wanting to ruin it anymore, I dash the others away with my hand and take a deep breath, slowly releasing. The pain subsides, but not completely. It’s an ache beneath my skin that never fully goes away.
Setting my sketchbook to the side, I place both hands on my stomach and imagine the pain being worth it once I have this little girl in my arms.
I wasn’t sure if I could do it at first. The day we left Benton Falls, I left a note for Campbell, and every day for a month, I waited by the phone, waiting for him to call and swoop in and save me. After a month, it finally hit me that he wasn’t coming. I spent the next couple of months mourning him, butthat all changed the day I had my first ultrasound. I heard the heartbeat, and then when the ultrasound tech asked if I wanted to know the gender, I nodded with tears filling my eyes. After that, I’d promised myself I’d do whatever it takes to make this life good for her.
“You and me, Willow,” I say to my stomach. “It’s me and you.”
“Really, Ivy,” my grandmother’s voice floats from the doorway, “why do you insist on doing that? The baby can’t hear you.”
Instead of getting up off the floor, I turn my head enough to look at her and shrug. “I think she can, and I want her to recognize my voice.”
It shouldn’t surprise me that her lip curls up in distaste—there isn’t an ounce of motherly instinct in her body—but it still makes me a little sad. People say it takes a village to raise a child, but Willow will only have me.
“Do get up, child. It’s not polite to speak to someone from the floor.”
Turning my head so she can’t see me, I roll my eyes and grunt my way into a standing position again. “Is there something you need, Grandmother?”
“Yes. Your grandfather and I have a meeting at the church tonight. We will not be home until late, but Liza will be here to cook you dinner. I should not have to say it, but I will. Do not leave this house.”
The condescending way she says it makes me want to rip my hair out. Other than to go to my doctor’s appointments, I haven’t left the house in months. My grandfather can’t stand the idea of someone finding out his granddaughter is pregnant out of wedlock. There have been many times I thought I might go insane—locked away in a prison of my own making—and yet, I have no authority to say anything because I need them.
“Yes, Grandmother,” I say from between my teeth, willing it to be the end of the conversation so I can go back to my ivory tower, because at least there I am not faced with disdain. Except, a conversation never ends until my grandmother is ready.
She eyes me and then looks at the sketchbook still lying on the floor. I want to scoop it up and hide it, to protect my dream for Willow, but I can’t move that fast—and it’s too late anyway. She’s already seen it.
